Kiss MeForgive Me
by perfectsmuttyvampire
Summary: It's been a year, and Hermione doesn't understand why nobody else seems to remember or care


_**A/N: Originally part of the Hogwarts sexathon, but when the story went beyond any intentions I had for it, that became inappropriate. Therefore posted as stand-alone.**_

_**TITLE: Kiss me…Forgive Me**_

_**SUMMARY: It's been a year, and Hermione can't understand why nobody else seem to remember or care.**_

_**PAIRING: Snape/Hermione**_

_**WARNING: Teacher/Student relationship. Smut.**_

_**J.K. ROWLING OWNS THESE CHARACTERS.**_

SPOV

She's grumpy, I can tell. It's the way she drops her bag, the way she slams her books onto the desk, missing Potter's fingers by a centimetre. It's the way she completely ignores me when she storms past to get ingredients from the store cupboard. She normally attempts a smile, although I never answer it because I'm afraid if I do I'll sweep my desk clear and - _"stop it, Severus!" _my brain orders _"we've had this conversation before…" _

I shake my head to clear the voice. First sign of madness. Holding conversations with the voices in your head. She goes back to her table, clearly still in a foul mood.

"Remember, Potions - particularly this Potion - are sensitive to the brewers moods. The Draught of Peace is not best brewed under the influence of a bad mood." I'm less arrogant, less rude, less sneering that I used to be. It's proven by the fact that my class now chatter quietly as they work. But it doesn't cheer her up. She mutters something.

"Miss Granger, is that something you'd like to share?" She glares up at me. The class stop, hold their breath. I'm not the only one who's noticed Hermione Granger is in a fouler.

"I said 'That's bollocks, Professor.'" The intake of breath would be audible in the Astronomy Tower. "The Draught of Peace is not a mood-sensitive Potion and you know it." I narrow my eyes. When Neville Longbottom actually recoils, I know it's the Death Glare, the Glare that hasn't been seen since the end of the war. Who is she, to invoke this in me?

"Miss Granger, no matter your personal mood, you may not address me in that tone!"

"Professor Snape, no matter what your personal mood, it doesn't give you licence to make shit up as you go!" If I rise up to her bait now, I'm in major trouble.

"Miss Granger, you will remain in your seat when this lesson is over. You and I, young woman, need to have a serious talk."

She is practically boiling when the two-hour session is finally over. I can practically see steam coming from her ears.

"Hermione, what's wrong?"

"None of your business!" she fumes. Not calmed down then.

"Miss Granger, when my best student nearly rips my head off in front of my class, there _is_ something wrong and _is _my business." She glowers. The Death Glare I patented now looks likes some soppy kitten smile. I mentally thank Merlin she isn't able to fire Avada Kedavra from her eyes. I am, however, acutely aware of just how insanely angry Hermione Granger is capable of getting, and exactly how much damage she is capable of when holding her wand in one of these rages. Sitting in front of me is the girl who killed Dolohov, Macnair and Lucius Malfoy himself. "Talk to me, Hermione."

HPOV

I nearly break down. When he doesn't shout, throw things and hand out detention for the next eternity, I nearly break down. To stop myself, I get up, pace. He thinks I am just angry. But I'm angry because if I can be angry, I can stop myself crying.

"Professor, today is the first anniversary of the end of the War. A year ago today, I killed three men and would have killed another. I watched Molly Weasley fight for her children's lives. Fred Weasley died in front of me. I saw Harry fight off Voldemort six feet from me. Fred, Remus, Alistair, Tonks, Professor Dumbledore, all the people we lost." I jerk, hearing Mad-Eye called Alistair. She was the only one permitted to call him Alistair. "The men I killed. Every day, I see their faces. Their faces as I killed them. And nobody even seems to realise how big today is."

"That's why you're angry?"

"I'm not angry, Severus. I'm sad, and upset, and yes, a little angry. But I'm mostly sad."

"People haven't forgotten, Hermione. The war will never be forgotten. You will never be forgotten."

SPOV

She looks calmer. Her back is turned to me, studying a pickled Bowtruckle. She taps the glass. I see - incredibly - the Bowtruckle stir.

"I know they haven't actually forgotten, Severus." I note the use of my first name for the second time in one conversation. I've watched the fight drain out of her. She's scared now, scared, tired and mentally exhausted. "But it hurts that through the entire day, nobody has even suggested even a minutes silence. Do you know what Draco said to me today, Severus?"

"No."

"He said thank you, and he said that it was OK. He says that to me every day. He holds my hand for a minute once a month, and we have a silence to remember. The fact that he has forgiven me for killing his father kills me inside, just a little." She taps the glass of the Bowtruckle's pickle jar again. He blinks steadily at her, then closes his eyes again. The magic this woman has in her fingertips terrifies me, inspires me, fills me with awe - and arouses me.

But not even I am prepared for her next words. She turns from the Bowtruckle, crosses the room and three strides and stands less than an inch from my chest.

"Kiss me, Severus." She looks up at me, her eyes bright. "Forgive me."

So I kiss her, taking sweet-scented hair down from the simple clasp, twining my hands in it, kissing her eyes, cheeks, nose, lips. I push her away from me, very gently.

"I can't do this, Hermione. Not whilst you're so upset. You'll regret this tomorrow -"

"Don't even think about telling me what I will and will not regret tomorrow, Severus." She kisses me, insistently, and I push her away, just that bit more firmly. I back her slowly into my desk.

"You've got seconds to admit that you don't want this, or I lose all control, Miss Granger."

"I need that," she whispers, and she looks desperate. "I need you to lose all control with me. _Please, _Severus."

And I have her, just like that. I'm rough, as that is what she wants, and she herself gives no quarter to me. She fights me for dominance every step, until I slide inside, and she goes boneless. I slam into her, no longer giving a damn about leaving marks. Her hips will bruise, her lips will bruise. There will be my mark on her neck.

At dinner she is quiet. But then she gets up, and comes up to the High Table. She asks one thing of Professor McGonagall, who nods sadly. Hermione claps her hands for attention, then clears her throat. She is close to tears, emotion in her voice.

"Today is the first anniversary of War's end. Today marks the first free year without fear for fifty years. A year ago today, inside this very castle, people gave their lives so you could have freedom. Some of the people in this Hall tonight fought, including myself. And so, I would like you to join me in remembering sixty-five people who gave their lives in the Battle of Hogwarts. I would like to have a minutes silence, in prayer or thought. I ask you to remember, and I ask that it is never forgotten, and that it never becomes just one more date. If you would join me."

She raises her head like someone awakening from a dream, and immediately looks for Draco. He nods, and then gets to his feet. He is holding his goblet in his hand.

"A toast. A toast to Hermione Granger, to Harry Potter and to Ronald Weasley. A toast to freedom, the freedom they made possible by risking their lives over and over, for us. A toast to memories."

"Memories, and freedom," I say, raising my own glass. The school follows suit.

Just before she graduated, Hermione arranged a memorial service. In June, she planted a weeping willow tree alongside an oak. Beside the marble stairs in the entrance hall, she brought into being a memorial stone, upon which she carved the names of the dead - every single person who fell against Voldemort. We'll hold a service there, every year, on the anniversary. She's already promised to be there every year, and Harry and Ron have given their word. She insisted that former Death Eaters who fell at Voldemort's hand be added. We had to remember everyone. She will never forget, nor will I. And as she takes my hand and we turn to walk away, I let her hand fall and put my arm around her, holding her tight as we walk.

"Never forgotten," I whisper, sadly. "Never forgotten."


End file.
